


Crimes Against Humanity

by cigarettestainedeyes



Series: The Truth Never Hurt So Good [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Ian being touchy-feely, M/M, date night that's not a date, mickey being mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:50:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cigarettestainedeyes/pseuds/cigarettestainedeyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-kiss, post-3x666 with a bit of flashback thought thrown in.</p><p>"Will you at least look at me?"</p><p>Mickey can’t look though, because Ian makes it all real. He can’t bare to glance over and meet the ginger’s eyes, because he knows what he’ll see; hope, sadness, forgiveness, willingness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crimes Against Humanity

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read as a stand alone without reading The Best Of.
> 
> Basically my crazy meta-turned-fic after Ian yells at Mickey in the abandoned building. Mickey feels so much but says so little and it kills me not knowing what's going on in his head. This might become multi-chaptered.

“Will you at least look at me?”

Mickey can’t look though, because Ian makes it all real. He can’t bare to glance over and meet the ginger’s eyes, because he knows what he’ll see; hope, sadness, forgiveness, willingness. It makes Mickey’s stomach churn, his blood boil, a dull aching start in his head, right at the pressure point on the base of his neck. He’ll push his thumb against the indents on his forehead, map out the worry lines with bitten-down cuticles until he can feel himself ignoring the pain, locking it away for later. He’s becoming really good at that, blocking out his feelings.

Ian’s face is battered and sunken in, much like Mickey’s own. He’s been avoiding mirrors and he doesn’t want to see the evidence of everything that happened. He can’t face it yet, doesn’t know if he’ll ever.

*

Even though there had been no plan, no real plan anyways, Mickey had thought the evening him and Gallagher shared had not totally sucked up until the point when Terry had ambushed them and unleashed hell.

Mickey was smoking a cigarette on the porch when Ian had bounced up the steps, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. Mickey tried not to act like he’d been on the porch for the last hour and a half waiting, pacing, acting like a goddamn kid.

“Fucking’a, Gallagher, if you’re gonna act like this is a date…” He trailed off, flicked his cigarette repeatedly and focused on a spot on the ground to stare at. It was better that he stop talking otherwise he might say something stupid like how good Ian looked, how excited he was acting, how that made Mickey excited and just no.

Ian’s face didn’t falter though. “I brought Mortal Kombat.” He supplied.

“Good, cause I got like three dvd’s left, my brothers cleaned us out last week. Needed to pawn some shit.” He cleared his throat, looked down the road to make sure no one was walking by.

Ian snatched the cigarette Mickey had been holding and breathed a laugh. “So when you say three dvds, what’re you talking, your two copies of Talladega Nights and Backyard Barn Hoes Gone Wild?” He took a long drag.

Mickey socked his arm. “Fuck you, I think they got rid of that one, kept The Nuns of Canterbury County. Better cinematography.”

Ian chuckled a little before pushing Mickey inside the house. Once Ian had deposited his backpack in the bedroom he wandered into the living room. He was anxious as fuck, his nerves making him not want to sit down. He was waiting for Mickey to do something, anything. They hadn’t talked about the kiss, nor had either of them made any attempt to repeat it. Mickey was in the kitchen and came back with a couple of beers after a few moments. He set them down on the coffee table and eyed Ian, suddenly a lot less confidence in his expression. He noticed Ian’s nerves and it bled into him like a disease.

“What’re you so fucking paranoid about all’a the sudden?” Mickey spat, maybe a little too harshly but he didn’t do well with shit like this and always ended up exploding.

Ian didn’t reply for a minute and didn’t meet Mickey’s eyes when he finally replied. “Nothing, nothing, it’s just...you haven’t told me to fuck you yet.”

“Fucking fascinating, firecrotch, is that all?” Mickey replied through clenched teeth and sat down on the couch. He busied himself with setting up the XBox.

Ian sat down beside him slowly, like approaching a caged animal. “It’s just…you’ve never--”

“Dude if you don’t shut the fuck up, you’re gonna wig me out and I’m gonna lock myself in my room and pass out for the night.” Mickey said thickly. The anger was unnecessary at this point, he knew it was. There was no one around, it was just the two of them, but he was nervous and Ian was freaking him out.

“Okay, okay, I’ll shut up. Gimme a controller.” Mickey handed him the white one wordlessly but noted the smirk on Ian’s face, and that was what he hated and loved the most about Ian; the kid saw right through his shit.

They fucked around for about forty-five minutes before Mickey shut off the game -- Ian had gotten better and it was annoying -- and announced he was hungry, which was his way of asking if Ian was hungry.

“You good with pizza rolls?” Mickey got up and headed for the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

Ian stayed in the living room, looking around at all the junk lying around and knick-knacks on the shelves near the window, the magazines stacked on the floor and laundry haphazardly trodden over that lay across the carpet throughout the room. It was a normal, suruban, low-income situation but Ian was never bored in other people’s houses. He felt like it showed so much about the inhabitants. He hadn’t ever been this alone in the Milkovich household.

The magazines were all dirty by the looks of it, many with nude pictures on the covers. There was an electronic keyboard leaning up against the wall shoved behind a couple of stacked boxes and Ian wondered who played. A collection of snow globes sat on the shelves, dusty with neglect and foggy with age. The most interesting thing Ian noticed was that there were no family pictures anywhere. There were a couple of the kids when they were younger but no real group photos. It made Ian a bit sad for the Milkovich’s. Even when the Gallaghers didn’t have nothing, they had support.

Mickey was talking about some asshole in juvie who he’d gotten into a heated argument with about Van Damme and Ian tuned back into the conversation as Mickey rejoined him in the living room. He handed off a second beer before returning to the kitchen as the oven went off. Ian occupied his hands by lighting a cigarette and sticking in the movie he’d brought with.

Mickey finally felt comfortable. He allowed himself to sneak a couple glances at Ian once they were sitting next to each other again. He hated thinking it, but he could get incredibly use to the feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ian was blushing and trying to keep on his side of the couch. Mickey wanted to lean over and put his hand in Ian’s crotch. Instead he didn’t move, just looked whenever he felt the urge, which was most of the movie. He couldn’t follow the plot at all. Ian looked back at him a handful of times, a somewhat shy smile on his face that should not have been allowed. They weren’t doing that shit, that cute adorable shit. Even though these thoughts ran through his mind, Mickey still smiled back.

“You gotta stop looking at me, Mick.” Ian said softly, voice rough with four beers by the time the movie was nearing its end, tongue tacky with processed dough. They’d shared a joint too and the effect of the marijuana was making everything hot and overexposed. The credits were about to roll and they both knew where this was ending.

“Hmm?” Mickey couldn’t actually form a proper reply because he’d never heard Ian use that tone and he wanted to lock it away somewhere for later.

“I don’t even remember what this movie’s called.” Ian hiccupped a laugh and fuck, that was it.

Mickey leaned over into Ian’s space. “You’re really obvious, Gallagher.” He whispered lowly in his ear with an evil grin.

Ian had a hand on his face before Mickey could move back, was leaning forward and taking what he wanted this time, not waiting for it. Mickey didn’t move, his hand reaching up and touching Ian’s wrist but remaining still as Ian pushed forward. Mickey made a noise without meaning to and cursed his inebriated mind. Ian made a noise in response, something needy like he wanted to hear that sound again.

“Bedroom?” Ian asked, pulling back so suddenly that Mickey jerked forward a little in shock. Ian’s face was blotchy red and Mickey’s eyes were low, dark.

“Fuck, every room.” He grumbled before reaching out and grabbing him by the back of the neck, dragging Ian half on top of him once their mouths were touching again.

There was something so _dirty_ about the way Ian kissed. Maybe it was because it was something they rarely did and Mickey hadn’t expected it to be this addictive, maybe it was because Ian kissed like it was his last chance with an open mouth and long strokes of his tongue, or that his mouth was so heady and constant that it made Mickey’s head spin and fuck, he’d never felt that before, not with anyone.

When Ian’s fingers stammered across Mickey’s stomach, pushing at his shirt and grabbing at the pale skin, Mickey pulled away and tried to tell Ian that yeah, they really needed to move this to a bed but Ian buried himself in Mickey’s neck, biting and licking and it was too distracting. Mickey swore when Ian unexpectedly reached down and spread his legs so he could settle between them more comfortably. Mickey didn’t like that, always said it made him too vulnerable. He nearly told Ian to fuck off but Ian shifted and suddenly there was solid weight pressing down, making Mickey immobile and his arousal level charge into second gear.

“Dammit.” Mickey groaned.

He felt Ian’s hands grab onto his own but didn’t think anything of it until they were being pinned by one of Ian’s, leaving a hand free to trail under Mickey’s shirt, free to tweak at the nipples he found. Ian had this thing about watching Mickey squirm and flex his arms as he tested Ian’s hold.

“You fucking twat.” Mickey shouted at him, only half-serious.

Ian knew how much Mickey didn’t appreciate foreplay. He was a very “all fuck, no favor” kind of guy. He wanted to get to the point and get out but tonight was special and fuck, Ian was going to make him see that. Ian did it again, rubbing at Mickey’s nipple softly then roughly, twisting then flicking all while grinning widely. Mickey tried twisting his body away, legs flailing a little, every curse word he could think of falling out of his mouth. Ian pressed his whole hand against Mickey’s chest and let it trail over to the neglected nipple, teasing some more and enjoying the puffs of air Mickey exuded, the stuttered insults and glossy eyes. His whole palm pushed lower and lower and Mickey jerked under Ian’s hold. He still couldn’t wriggle free. It had to be a hold he had learned.

“Fuck, you gotta stop training so hard, Gallagher.” Mickey choked out with a breathy laugh.

“Say my name.” Ian demanded suddenly, hand still on Mickey lower abdomen. Mickey moves his hips, tries to get Ian to touch him but he can’t and his head falls back on the shitty couch pillow, an angry sound falling from his mouth.

“Gallagher, I swear to fuck.” He snaps.

Ian dropped his head, biting at the skin under Mickey’s ear, pushing down with his body and pressing against what he could through Mickey’s jeans. It was torture, a barely-there friction that made Mickey’s eyes cross.

“Fuuu...okay, okay, Ian! Happy?” Mickey said, face buried to the side in embarrassment, in defeat.

“Again.” Ian whispered, blowing air over the skin he’d just lapped at, a shiver running down Mickey’s back that he tried to hide.

“Ian.” He says it quietly but it causes Ian’s fingers to scramble at the button of Mickey’s jeans and yeah, that’s more fucking like it.

Gallagher’s grip is looser and Mickey manages to pull out of his grasp, finally. He halts Ian’s movements by pulling off the kids shirt but as soon as it’s gone Ian’s tearing Mickey’s off and they’re on their feet, tripping over shit as they paw at each other on the way to the bedroom.

They don’t get past the door frame.

*

It had been nice. Mickey had felt wanted, safe even. Now it was completely different. He only felt okay on his own. The only way back to normal for him was to alienate himself. He felt like used goods, broken equipment. He blamed himself, hated himself. Out shooting in abandoned buildings, drinking himself into a stupor and chain smoking cigarette after cigarette, screaming and punching and reopening the wounds his dad gave him, the ones he’d given himself, scratching at the bruises on his hips that were from Ian, the only marks on him that weren’t a byproduct of hate. His eyes stung and his knuckles were sore, his hips burned with the memory of fucking that whore, his fiance, his child’s mother.

Ian had found him multiple times over the course of the week, yelling and throwing things and getting up in Mickey’s space, resulting in more blood, more broken skin but at least he was trying. Mickey’s wounds began looking more normal after a few more days. His hands, cracked and bloodied were scabbing over and soon there’d be new skin. Ian’s split lip was healing. It was almost like none of it had happened. Now all he had was his gun and a woman at home he didn’t even want.

The way his dad talks about Svetlana, Mickey can’t really be sure the baby’s actually his. It could be anyone’s realistically, but Mickey complies with his dad’s sick orders because he has no other choice. Sure he could couch surf with the few friends he has, maybe bunk with Gallagher for a bit, find some shitty job and try and make it on his own, but that’s not the way the Milkovich household works. Terry built everything in their lives on fear and even if Mickey felt like he could take his old man in a fight, he knew that Terry had manpower to back him up. There’d be a hit out on Mickey before Terry would hit the floor. Mandy would be beaten if he fled, perhaps to death. No, he had to sit in the bed he’d made. He had to fucking burn in it.

The day after Ian leaves for the army, Mickey sits in the living room with Svetlana to eat and watch Jeopardy because she liked American television and also because she had cooked. Mickey hadn’t been eating much but he felt kinda bad that she was carrying a kid and still fucking guys and _still_ bothering to cook for him, especially since Mickey wasn’t particularly nice to her. He was civil and they talked and yeah, she was growing on him but originally Mickey had been kind of an ass.

Sitting there, his eyes focused on the television but his mind is racing, thumb perched in his mouth, he realizes he shouldn’t have blocked Ian out. After the...rape -- he was trying to get used to recognizing it -- he should have went to Ian. Even if he never managed to say anything, just going to him would have signified something. Instead he buried himself in distractions that hadn’t even worked.

He couldn’t believe Ian was really gone and was half expecting the kid to show up at his front door or for Mandy to tear through the living room yelling that she was going over to see him but neither of those things happened. Instead Jeopardy ends and Mickey manages a few bits of lasagna. He only throws up afterwards because of the twisting in his stomach.

When him and Lana are alone in Mickey’s room, she changes into a large t-shirt and no pants and talks about her day, the interesting customers she had and the ones that were assholes. Svetlana spoke in broken but almost adorable English and had a dry sense of humor that Mickey sometimes found himself laughing along with.

They never had sex. She had tried on the night of their wedding, and for the next few days after but on the third night of failed attempts she sat up with a frustrated sigh, crossing her legs.

“The boy that day.” She had said.

Mickey sat up as well but turned away from her, putting his feet on the floor and bending over to retrieve his sweats. “Fuck off.” He immediately said.

She wasn’t swayed by his attitude. She wasn’t like Ian who would just roll his eyes or smile. Svetlana tells him to fuck off right back and glares until he gestures for her to continue.

She let out a breath. “He is special to you. I see. You bring him here to love. I find someone too. We both happy, it win-win.”

“One, I don’t technically think whores can find love and two, Ia...the kid fucked off.” He lit up a cigarette because it seemed like an appropriate enough response to anything.

She waved a hand at him like she was shooing a fly. “Don’t be prick, I of course find love. And you find him, tell him all of what you feel. It will be good.” She insisted.

He knew she wouldn’t be able to understand. She was too nice, not like Terry, not like so many people in the world.

“Not everyone gets to be happy.” He finally mumbled.

He walked over to his desk, pretended to move some stuff around in the hope that she would change the subject.

“Okay, I leave it. But if you want, I buy strap-on. We fuck like beasts.” She held up her fists and thrusted her hips once from where she was sitting on the bed.

He grinned at that, couldn’t help it. “Jesus, ya know, we just might have to.”

Now, Mickey tells her to leave it whenever she brings up Ian. He can’t tell her Ian ran off to the army, can’t talk about it with Mandy cause she just yells at him for being a dumbass, and can’t run and chat with Lip cause he’d fucked off to college.

Mickey sits at the Alibi, downing shot after shot, losing it a little more as the days blur together. Four years is an awful lot of whiskey.


End file.
